ASHES OF OBSESSION

Ellen’s Point of View The lilies are too strong. The perfume and colognes plaster the four corners of the church, thick and unwavering, as if grief itself has taken form to strangle us all. Or maybe just me. Every breath I drag feels like drowning, with no hope of rescue in sight. Grief is torture. It is pure hell. A quick glance at my back and I lazily assess the rows of people who sit stiffly in black, their heads bowed and bobbing, their whispers shooting subtly like air through cracked glass. Hypocrites. Deep down, I know they attend the funeral out of formality and pure obligation. And this only worsens the ache I try so hard to dull in my heart. Clara. My anchor. The mother I never had. The only constant in a life that always feels too cold. Gone. The priest’s voice rises and falls, but his words sound like distant chatter. Eternal rest? Paradise? Dust to dust? Hearing those words feels surreal, because all I can see is Clara’s beautiful smile. Her soft, silky voice teasing me gently whenever I enter her office. She is life and warmth itself, making me believe I matter. My throat burns like scotch. My eyes sting and before I know it, I am reeling slimy substances into the brown paper bag that has become my pathetic comforter. “Ellen. ” My father’s voice slices through the air. I turn, wiping the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand. He stands there, tall, immaculately dressed, his expression as distant as ever. “You should go home, ” he says, probably irritated with my antics, eager to shoo me off now that the service has ended. “There’s no reason to linger. ” No reason? Heat crawls fast up my cheeks, and all I want to do is shout. Clara has been more to me than he has ever been. She is the reason I survived years of suffocation in our house. But of course, my voice fails. He wouldn’t understand. He never will. “I’m staying, ” I whisper. His eyes twitch with irritation, but he doesn’t argue. He turns away, striding toward a group of familiar faces, leaving me with the hollow weight of his absence, though he is still in the room. I look down at my feet and sigh for the umpteenth time. The emptiness inside me deepens, and I wonder if I will ever wake from the nightmare of Clara’s death. Outside, the sky drizzles soft droplets of rain. They tap gently against umbrellas and the stone courtyard. People thin out, the crowd dispersing, until the air feels easier to breathe. “Miss Dumas?” I stop. A man in a grey coat approaches, his presence solemn. He eyes me warily, maybe pitying me. I stare back blankly as he introduces himself as Clara’s lawyer. From his pocket, he draws an envelope sealed perfectly in red wax. He slips it into my cold palm with a careful hand. “She asked me to give this to you. ” What? My chest tightens. The envelope is light, yet unbearably heavy as it touches my skin. “Wh… why me?” I manage. His expression doesn’t change. “Her instructions were clear. ” And then he turns and disappears into the thinning crowd. I stare at the envelope until it visibly blurs. I don’t open it. I can’t. That night, the house is too quiet. The rain hasn’t ceased, pressing against the windows, steady and endless. My father has locked himself in his study as usual. I sit at my desk with the envelope before me, the red wax catching the desk light. The silence of the room pulses like a wound. For an hour, I only stare. My eyes blink hard, my fingers tremble. Opening this letter means finality. Her last words. The end of her voice in my life. But I have to. I c***k the seal beneath my fingers. The sound is sharp, tearing through the silence. Inside is one short sheet of paper. Clara’s familiar handwriting sprawls unevenly across it. Nothing like her careful notes or witty comments on my essays. Ellen, What they teach in light, they bury in shadow. Do not trust a smile that reaches you too quickly. When silence follows, write it down. When the light bends, remember it is never chance, always design. You already hold more answers than you think. Trust the questions, trust yourself. — Clara. My breath catches. I read it once. Twice. Again. And again. This doesn’t feel like comfort or farewell. It feels like a warning. Before I can even begin to unravel it, my phone buzzes in the quiet of the night. I fumble for it, startled by the sound. For a second, a wild, foolish hope surges that it was Clara, and maybe it was a prank. But the name flashing across the screen makes me freeze. Antonio. My ex. We haven’t spoken in a year. Our breakup was quiet, mutual, dictated more by family circumstances than lack of love. I hesitate. Then I swipe. Maybe I need to hear a voice other than the one in my head. “Ellen?” His voice is soft, careful. I almost melt. God, how I have missed his voice. “Yeah. ” “I… I heard about Professor Veyron. I’m so, so sorry. ” For a moment, I can’t answer. The lump in my throat is too tight. “You talked about her all the time, ” he continues, filling the silence. The rain taps at my window. My room holds its breath with me. “You don’t have to go through this alone, you know, ” he adds gently. I bite my lip hard. “I am alone. ” “No, Elly, you’re not. ” His voice steadies, warm. The nickname makes my tears spill faster. “Remember when you failed that midterm and thought your life was over? Clara made you rewrite the paper until your hand cramped. And then you got one of the highest marks. She pushed because she knew what you were capable of. She would want you to keep proving her right, you know?” A broken laugh slips from me, wet with tears. “You always remember everything. ” “I remember you Elly, ” he says softly. Silence stretches again, the weight of old memories rushing in, bittersweet and sharp. Before it can turn heavier, I whisper, “Thanks, Antonio. ” “Anytime, ” he replies. “I’m here. Day or night. ” When the call ends, I smile sadly at the letter abandoned on my desk. For the first time all day, the weight inside me feels lighter. Not gone. Never gone. But easier to carry. The following day, I walk the university halls. I did not come in for lectures just yet. I came to drop off a letter of resumption at my college building, then get back home immediately. At the far end of the corridor, a man stands speaking with the dean. He doesn’t move much, but the space bends around his presence. Something in me stills. My gaze clings too long, and then, as if sensing it, his eyes snap to mine. Piercing. Deliberate. My pulse falters, my breath shallow. I jerk my head down and move forward, determined to shake it off. As I pass, my shoulder mistakenly grazes against the edge of his suit. He stiffens instantly, like I’ve dirtied him. “Watch where you’re going, ” he says. His voice is low, cold, and dismissive. I stop. His words sting, slicing through the fragile calm I’ve tried to rebuild. I turn, finally seeing him up close. He is striking. Too striking. Tall, broad-shouldered, his features carved sharp, his dark eyes severe. Handsome, yes, but his expression ruins it. Icy, disdainful, as if I am beneath his notice. “But I said excuse me, ” I reply in a tight voice. His jaw tightens, his stare unyielding. “Apology doesn’t erase carelessness. Pay attention next time. ” Anger surges hot in my chest. My grief and exhaustion leave me with no patience for arrogance. “You’re right, ” I retort, “If I had paid more attention, I’d have known to stay clear. ” For the briefest moment, something flickers in his gaze danger, irritation, or something else I can’t name. Then his expression shutters, cold as stone. The dean clears his throat behind him, breaking the moment. The man turns away, dismissing me entirely. That dismissal burns worse than his words. I walk on, fists clenched, my heart hammering. But even as I put distance between us, I can’t shake the weight of his stare. Or the strange spark it left behind. Who the hell does he think he is?